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Arise, O cup-bearer, & bring
Fresh wine for our enrapturing!
O minstrel, of our sorrow sing—
‘O joy of whose delight we dreamed,
O love that erst so easy seemed,
What toil is in thy travelling!’
How in the lov’d one’s tent can I
Have any rest or gaiety?
Ever anon the horsemen cry,
‘O lingering lover, fare thee well!’
Ever I hear the jingling bell
Of waiting steed & harnessry.
O seeker who wouldst surely bring
To happy end thy wandering,
O learner who wouldst truly know,
Let not earth’s loves arrest thee. Go!
Mad thee with heaven’s pure wine & fling
To those clear skies thy rapturing.